If You Only Knew
Page 100
I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Why didn’t he call me? Did his mom take a turn for the worse? Or did he get hurt somehow, maybe trying to use power tools again, or a car accident, or—
But wait. There’s his car, parked just a few spaces down from mine. I’ve only seen him drive it once or twice, but that’s his car.
I go back down into the courtyard and knock. There’s no answer. I try the door. It’s locked, but I have a key.
My heart is shuddering with dread.
I open the door and flip the kitchen light on. We spend much more time at my place than his. As usual, the house is immaculate, soulless as an IKEA showroom.
I go into the living room and turn on a light there, then leap back with a shriek.
“Leo! Jesus, you scared me.”
He squints at me.
Oh, dear. That’s a good-size glass in his hand, and the liquid is clear. I’m betting it’s not water. A bottle of Grey Goose on the coffee table confirms my Sherlockian suspicion.
“You okay, h— buddy?” I almost say honey, but I’m a little afraid to, for some reason.
“Jenny. I’d like to be alone,” he says, enunciating carefully.
He’s in the exact middle of the couch, and in this impersonal living room, he looks like a prop, sitting with his back straight, like he doesn’t quite know how to sit anymore.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Loki died.”
“Oh, no! I’m so sorry, Leo.” I sit next to him and put my hand on his leg. He takes another sip of his drink.
“Well. He was old, as you so kindly pointed out.”
I bite my lip. “I’m sorry. You... He had a good life.”
“Did he, Jenny? Do you really know?”
That’s a weird question. I take my hand off his leg. “I know you loved him and took really good care of him,” I say.
“That is true. Yes.”
“How old was he?” I ask.
“Fifteen.”
“That’s... Wow.”
“Don’t bother telling me it was his time and he’s at the Rainbow Bridge and at least he’s not having seizures and arthritis pain anymore.” Another healthy sip. “I’d sell my worthless soul to have him back. That stupid dog was all I had left.”
The words knife through my gut.
He has his students, after all. He has me.
But at the moment, he doesn’t look as if he wants to be consoled.
“I know how much you loved him,” I say quietly, “and I’m really sorry for your loss.”
He laughs. “You have no idea what I’ve lost.”
“I guess not.”
He looks at me with those fathomless eyes, the entire ocean of everything and nothing. Everything he feels, and nothing he wants me to see.
Then, oddly, he leans forward and kisses me on the forehead. “Even though you’re very nice, I’m going to say good-night,” he says. “I believe I’m drunk enough to pass out now, so I’m going to bed.”
He stands up, sways, and I jump up and take his arm. “I’ll get you tucked in.”
“Do what you gotta do.”
I lead him into his bedroom. Like the rest of the apartment, it’s blandly attractive. On the night table is Pet Sematary by the master of sleep deprivation, Stephen King. I slip it onto the floor so Leo won’t get any ideas.
He can’t seem to figure out how to get his T-shirt off. “Let me help, okay?” I pull it off, noting rather a lot of dog hair on it, and my throat tightens. I want to ask if it was a gentle death, if Loki went in his sleep, or drifted away courtesy of a kindly vet...or if Leo had to carry him out in a panic, the dog seizing or yelping in pain.
Based on Leo’s state right now, I have a sinking feeling it was the last one.
Leo manages to get his jeans off. I pull down the covers, and he wastes no time getting in. His eyes close instantly, like Rose’s do the second she hits the mattress.
“Do you want me to stay?” I whisper, stroking his hair.
“No.” He opens his eyes a crack. “No, thanks, I mean.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” His eyes close again.
I get him a glass of water for the night table, take Pet Sematary with me and go into the living room. Put the bottle of vodka in the freezer.
What I want is for Leo to come out of his room and ask me to stay. I’d make him scrambled eggs and toast, and we could watch a movie, and he’d put his head in my lap and tell me he loves me, and he’s glad I’m here. That in the end, Loki liked me after all, even if it was just a little bit.
But he doesn’t. I listen at his door for a few seconds, but I don’t hear a sound.
* * *
I go down to check on Leo the next morning, extra cup of coffee in hand, but he doesn’t answer, and I don’t want to let myself in again. He might be getting some much-needed sleep. And I have two consultations. My sister’s coming in after the girls’ nap, because they’re going to be flower girls in Jared’s wedding, and I offered to make their dresses.
So I text Leo instead.
Thinking of you. Call me if you want & I’ll see you later.
Despite my worry over him, the day goes by surprisingly fast; after my first consultation, I get a call from a reporter. Hudson Bride wants to do a feature on Bliss and custom-made wedding dresses, so I invite the woman to come over. She brings a photographer to take pictures of the dresses on the showroom floor, me with a sketch pad, me sewing, Andreas peering over my shoulder, and one of me with my second bride of the day, who’s overjoyed that she gets to be in a magazine. Then I kick them out to focus on my client, who wants “Grace Kelly meets Gwen Stefani,” whatever the hell that would look like, and pumps me for my feelings on the Kardashian weddings. I can tell we’re not going to become friends.
But wait. There’s his car, parked just a few spaces down from mine. I’ve only seen him drive it once or twice, but that’s his car.
I go back down into the courtyard and knock. There’s no answer. I try the door. It’s locked, but I have a key.
My heart is shuddering with dread.
I open the door and flip the kitchen light on. We spend much more time at my place than his. As usual, the house is immaculate, soulless as an IKEA showroom.
I go into the living room and turn on a light there, then leap back with a shriek.
“Leo! Jesus, you scared me.”
He squints at me.
Oh, dear. That’s a good-size glass in his hand, and the liquid is clear. I’m betting it’s not water. A bottle of Grey Goose on the coffee table confirms my Sherlockian suspicion.
“You okay, h— buddy?” I almost say honey, but I’m a little afraid to, for some reason.
“Jenny. I’d like to be alone,” he says, enunciating carefully.
He’s in the exact middle of the couch, and in this impersonal living room, he looks like a prop, sitting with his back straight, like he doesn’t quite know how to sit anymore.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Loki died.”
“Oh, no! I’m so sorry, Leo.” I sit next to him and put my hand on his leg. He takes another sip of his drink.
“Well. He was old, as you so kindly pointed out.”
I bite my lip. “I’m sorry. You... He had a good life.”
“Did he, Jenny? Do you really know?”
That’s a weird question. I take my hand off his leg. “I know you loved him and took really good care of him,” I say.
“That is true. Yes.”
“How old was he?” I ask.
“Fifteen.”
“That’s... Wow.”
“Don’t bother telling me it was his time and he’s at the Rainbow Bridge and at least he’s not having seizures and arthritis pain anymore.” Another healthy sip. “I’d sell my worthless soul to have him back. That stupid dog was all I had left.”
The words knife through my gut.
He has his students, after all. He has me.
But at the moment, he doesn’t look as if he wants to be consoled.
“I know how much you loved him,” I say quietly, “and I’m really sorry for your loss.”
He laughs. “You have no idea what I’ve lost.”
“I guess not.”
He looks at me with those fathomless eyes, the entire ocean of everything and nothing. Everything he feels, and nothing he wants me to see.
Then, oddly, he leans forward and kisses me on the forehead. “Even though you’re very nice, I’m going to say good-night,” he says. “I believe I’m drunk enough to pass out now, so I’m going to bed.”
He stands up, sways, and I jump up and take his arm. “I’ll get you tucked in.”
“Do what you gotta do.”
I lead him into his bedroom. Like the rest of the apartment, it’s blandly attractive. On the night table is Pet Sematary by the master of sleep deprivation, Stephen King. I slip it onto the floor so Leo won’t get any ideas.
He can’t seem to figure out how to get his T-shirt off. “Let me help, okay?” I pull it off, noting rather a lot of dog hair on it, and my throat tightens. I want to ask if it was a gentle death, if Loki went in his sleep, or drifted away courtesy of a kindly vet...or if Leo had to carry him out in a panic, the dog seizing or yelping in pain.
Based on Leo’s state right now, I have a sinking feeling it was the last one.
Leo manages to get his jeans off. I pull down the covers, and he wastes no time getting in. His eyes close instantly, like Rose’s do the second she hits the mattress.
“Do you want me to stay?” I whisper, stroking his hair.
“No.” He opens his eyes a crack. “No, thanks, I mean.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” His eyes close again.
I get him a glass of water for the night table, take Pet Sematary with me and go into the living room. Put the bottle of vodka in the freezer.
What I want is for Leo to come out of his room and ask me to stay. I’d make him scrambled eggs and toast, and we could watch a movie, and he’d put his head in my lap and tell me he loves me, and he’s glad I’m here. That in the end, Loki liked me after all, even if it was just a little bit.
But he doesn’t. I listen at his door for a few seconds, but I don’t hear a sound.
* * *
I go down to check on Leo the next morning, extra cup of coffee in hand, but he doesn’t answer, and I don’t want to let myself in again. He might be getting some much-needed sleep. And I have two consultations. My sister’s coming in after the girls’ nap, because they’re going to be flower girls in Jared’s wedding, and I offered to make their dresses.
So I text Leo instead.
Thinking of you. Call me if you want & I’ll see you later.
Despite my worry over him, the day goes by surprisingly fast; after my first consultation, I get a call from a reporter. Hudson Bride wants to do a feature on Bliss and custom-made wedding dresses, so I invite the woman to come over. She brings a photographer to take pictures of the dresses on the showroom floor, me with a sketch pad, me sewing, Andreas peering over my shoulder, and one of me with my second bride of the day, who’s overjoyed that she gets to be in a magazine. Then I kick them out to focus on my client, who wants “Grace Kelly meets Gwen Stefani,” whatever the hell that would look like, and pumps me for my feelings on the Kardashian weddings. I can tell we’re not going to become friends.
